The men were nearly all
short, dark, and very young. But the spring and fire with which they
marched were magnificent. As they thundered out the grand old tune their
feet seemed scarcely to touch the earth, and fierce eyes glowed in dark
faces.
John, with a start, recognized one, a petty officer, a sergeant it
seemed, who marched beside the line. He was the most eager of them all,
and his face was tense and wrapt. It was Geronimo, the little Apache, in
whom the spark of patriotism had lit the fire of genius. His call had
come and it had drawn him from a half savage life into one of glorious
deeds for his country.
"He'll be a general if he isn't killed first," murmured John, with
absolute conviction.
Geronimo, at that moment, looked his way and recognized him. His hand
flew to his head in a military salute, which John returned in kind, and
his eyes plainly showed pleasure at sight of this new friend whom he had
made in a few minutes on the Butte Montmartre.
"We meet again," he said, "and before the week is out it will be victory
or death."
"I think so, too," said John.
"I know it," said Geronimo, and, saluting once more, he marched on with
his regiment. John saw them pass across the valley and join the great
mass of troops that filled the whole northern horizon. About an hour
later a cheerful voice called to him, and he beheld Lannes standing in
the door of the tent, his head well bandaged, but his eyes clear and
strong and the natural color in his face.
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